To Those Who Wait
by AdlockedMrsCumberbatch
Summary: ...and the good things that come to them. FORMERLY TITLED 'SENTIMENTAL MUSINGS OF A HIGH-FUNCTIONING SOCIOPATH! Sherlock ponders why Molly, our favourite mousy pathologist, is contaminating his mind-palace and sets about trying to fix it, setting into motion a rather sentimental chain of events. Pure fluff but plenty of action. T for possible later chapters, set after series 3.
1. Chapter 1: Malfunctioning

**Hello my lovelies, this is a very old fic that I wrote a while ago when Sherlolly was my OTP. In fact, it was the first fic I ever wrote, so please don't be too harsh, I just thought i'd upload it since i'm neglecting you all, and besides, I have a soft-spot for Sherlolly. Adlock shippers, don't despair, I am not defecting, I'm just so busy with school right now that it was easier to upload something pre-written than write something new, and this was all I had. As soon as I get a break, I will write more Adlock, I promise.**

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or it's characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC.***

Sherlock Holmes stood over the body of the deceased Mr Jones, thinking hard. It just didn't make any sense: there were absolutely no traces of anything which could have caused the man's death; no surface wounds or internal bleeding, no signs of heart failure, not even poison in the stomach contents or bloodstream. If Sherlock hadn't been the high-functioning sociopathic genius that he was, on first glance he may have just assumed that Mr Jones was simply sleeping.

At a loss, Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to scan its contents for what felt like the fiftieth time that day, and once again all he proceeded to find was the…glitch that he had been coming across so frequently these days; no matter how many times he tried to reboot it, his mind palace constantly threw up the same problem. At first, he had been able to physically push the distraction out of his way, but recently it- she- was becoming harder and harder to budge. She was there now as he tried to work out the cause of Mr Jones' death, smiling with her wide grin of glittering teeth, her deep hazel eyes gleaming as she played with the end of her tawny ponytail as always.

Molly Hooper. He had only to walk through the doors of his mind palace to see her shining face, with an unmovable embarrassed smile, flushed cheeks and eyes that couldn't help but wander to his. Sherlock had no idea why she had suddenly taken up residence in his head, no idea why his stomach fluttered at the sight of her, no idea why when the torrent of nervous words poured from her mouth, all he wanted was to silence her with a kiss to her delicate rosebud lips. All he knew was that his entire mind palace was malfunctioning, contaminated by something he had dismissed long ago: emotion.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did have a heart. He could feel the things that ordinary people could- sadness, pain, anger…love. In fact, it was his previous experiences of such sentiment that had rendered him completely devoid of it. As a teenager, Sherlock had developed an unhealthy infatuation with a girl in his class at school. Struck blind by love, he had persisted with countless attempts at capturing her heart, but all of them had been shunned by the subject of his adoration. She had mocked him, rejected him, brushed him aside with such hurtful comments Sherlock had wanted to curl up and die. Each one cut him to the core, labelling him as a weirdo, a nutcase, a freak. Even as an adolescent he had been almost completely emotionless, and Sherlock did not often shed tears, but one day after a particularly cruel string of abuse from this girl, Mycroft had found him behind the summerhouse in the garden of his childhood home, crying. Mycroft was very protective of his little brother and Sherlock was fonder of Mycroft than he'd have people know, so the words of wisdom he had given him that fateful day had always stuck in his head: 'Love is for the weak, brother mine. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side; caring is not an advantage.'

Sherlock had believed it then and he had always believed it since. After all, if something as painful as heartbreak was the inevitable result of love, it wasn't worth the trouble; if sentiment caused such excruciating agony then he, The Great Sherlock Holmes, would have no sentiment in his life at all. But as once again Molly invaded his head and clutched at his heart, he began to wonder whether maybe he needed sentiment after all. His body, starved of emotion for so long, was beginning to crave it- to crave her. He needed to feel her petite, fragile frame pressed against his body, to hold her in his arms and feel her folded into his chest, to kiss her mouth and bury his face in her soft mousy hair. He needed to love, to heal the old wounds that had bled for so long and he was sure Molly would be his ointment, his plaster.

But of course, first he needed to tell her. Sherlock may have been one of if not _the_ cleverest man on the planet but he hadn't the faintest clue how to go about asking a woman out. This considered, it was good then that he had John to turn to. Sherlock trusted John; trust was another thing that Mycroft had preached against when Sherlock was a boy- a dangerous pursuit that only ended in tears he had called it, and for a long time Sherlock had believed that too, but since meeting John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, his views on matters such as trust had changed somewhat. They were his friends and he trusted them in his own special way. Sherlock picked up his phone and tapped out a text. "Come to 221B now if convenient, urgent. SH."

Before pausing for a few seconds then sending his signature follow-up text: "If inconvenient, come anyway. SH."

Sure enough, about twenty minutes later, John rushed through the door.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, I came as quickly as I could, what is it?" he cried.

Sherlock span round in his wheelie chair with his fingertips resting against each other in their trademark prayer position. "I need your help," he said.

John relaxed slightly, and seemed surprised. "Oh. Ok, what is it, a case, do we need to see a body in the morgue, visit a crime scene?"

"Actually, I need some advice." Replied Sherlock.

"Advice?" Echoed John. Never before had Sherlock Holmes asked John for advice; as far as Sherlock was concerned, he knew best about everything- even things he barely knew about.

"Yes. John, I need to know how to ask a woman to dinner."

John just stared. "You? Ask a woman to dinner? Who?"

Sherlock took a deep breath as the woman who had been haunting him for weeks once again drifted to the forefront of his mind and a shiver of… was it excitement that ran down his spine?

"Dr Molly Hooper."

A couple of hours later, Sherlock stood outside the doors to St Bart's morgue, straightening the collar of his coat and smoothing down his shirt; it was the purple one, the one he knew Molly loved (he had deduced it was her favourite by observing her reaction when he wore this shirt compared to any of his others: her pupils always dilated that little bit more and her cheeks flushed a shade deeper every time.) He recalled John's exact words: "Smile, relax and remember to make eye contact. She will be extremely nervous so you have to take charge of the situation, put her at ease. Just be yourself; actually, don't. Be polite and gentlemanly, she doesn't want to be insulted, she wants to be flattered. Promise me you won't be a tit to her Sherlock?"

Sherlock had promised irritably- being a tit to Molly was the last thing he wanted to do, did John really think he'd be so stupid? Taking a deep breath and clearing his throat, Sherlock pushed through the doors purposefully, making Molly jump. She was at her desk, bent over a pile of papers, her ponytail draped over her right shoulder. A cup of tea on the coaster next to her, surrounded by a scattering of biscuit crumbs- Sherlock suspected they were the remnants of custard creams from the texture.

"Sherlock!" she said surprised, blushing immediately and averting her eyes nervously from his. He suddenly found her timidity strangely attractive, and he shivered again.

"Hello Molly,"

"Um, w-what can I d-do for you, do you erm, do you need to see Mr Jones again?" Molly stammered, her glittering hazel eyes restless with embarrassment, skittering over this and that in the room like a frightened rabbit. Something inside Sherlock was urging him to reach out and touch her, to caress her waist and calm her nerves; he stuffed his hands in his pockets- he was not going to be hasty. Instead he took a few steps closer to her, taking in her form. As usual she was swamped by her second hand, two-sizes-too-big white lab coat, but underneath Molly wore a smart pencil skirt which hugged her figure, highlighting her curves and making Sherlock feel a burning sensation in his stomach not unlike that he had felt when he had witnessed Irene Adler naked. Tucked into the skirt was a coral coloured blouse covered by a plain black cardigan which clung to her arms, highlighting just how delicate her frame was: Sherlock would have to be gentle when- if- he got to hold her, for surely he could crush her with his strong arms (_where the hell did that thought come from?)_ She wore minimal make-up, just some tinted moisturiser, lip gloss and a touch of mascara, but she didn't need anything else: she looked positively radiant as it was, and Sherlock wondered how her beauty had eluded him before.

"No actually, I didn't come to see Mr Jones, thank you." He replied at last after he had catalogued every detail of Molly's appearance to his mind palace, now strangely in full working order. "I came to see you."

"Me?" Molly squeaked.

Sherlock took another step forward so that he was so close to her, he could hear her quick anticipative breaths as she readied herself for whatever was about to happen.

"Yes you," he said softly, looking her in the eye the way John had told him to; she held his gaze for a moment before looking to the floor in embarrassment.

"How would you like to come to dinner with me tonight?"

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**A/N: So yeah, that was that. If anybody can't bear the cliffhanger ending, drop me a PM or vent your spleen with a lovely review (they make my day) and I will see if I can find the time to continue it- if enough of you complain I will have to ;) Just don't expect particularly regular updates since I am SO busy, urgh. I will try to update at least fortnightly though, I'm not that mean!**

**Best wishes to you all,**

**~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch x**


	2. Chapter 2: Suitability

**Hello lovely readers! sorry it's been so long! This is the second instalment of my Sherlolly fic, 'Sentimental musings of a high functioning sociopath'. It didn't really get that much response- I wrote this chapter more to pacify myself than reader demand because I just couldn't deal with the cliffhanger ending- but I got quite a few follows so I'm guessing people want to hear more. I'm not that pleased with this chapter, it's a bit slap-dash and I prefer writing from Sherlock's POV than Molly's, but I felt bad for not updating and this is where the story naturally felt like it should go. Anyway, that's enough rabbiting from me- enjoy!**

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its characters- any and all rights belong to the BBC***

It was 6:15.

The cab was picking her up at 6:45. And right now all she was wearing was a towel.

Almost every single article of clothing Molly owned was strewn across the floor, each one looked at, deliberated over, and then chucked over her shoulder in rejection.

When did deciding what to wear get so bloody hard?

"_When you got asked to dinner by the man you're hopelessly in love with, that's when,"_ said a little voice in Molly's spinning head. She bit her lip and tried to control herself. She had never been so nervous in her life. Dinner with Sherlock Holmes, at long last! She felt like her heart could burst through her ribs at any second, she just couldn't believe this was finally, finally happening. Perhaps good things really did come to those who waited? A strangled noise of elation slipped through her lips, startling Toby the cat and sending him skittering under the bed, abandoning his little nest of clothes that he had been sleeping quite happily in.

"Sorry Toby," she sighed, before continuing her frantic search for a suitable outfit.

What exactly _was _suitable anyway?

What was the etiquette for a first date- a _proper _first date? It had been such a long time since she had really had one, she realised. She didn't want to dress up too fancy, it might make it seem all too formal, but at the same time she couldn't wear what she usually wore- this was most certainly not a jeans and a jumper occasion! But Molly realised that she only really had clothes that went from one extreme to the other- comfy slouchy jumpers and numerous tatty pairs of jeans, or posh dresses for conferences or lectures- nothing of the in-betweeny sort that she needed.

Oh, to hell with etiquette, she thought. This was Sherlock Holmes she was talking about- he would be dressed like a bloody aristocrat anyway, he always was. What on Earth could she wear to compliment _him, _with all his perfect imperfections? She groaned in frustration.

"You're overthinking things, Molly." She told herself firmly. "You always do this when you're nervous, just chill, it's just clothes."

She wished she could believe that, but everything _had _to be overthought. She was having dinner with the most observant, analytical man in Britain. He wouldn't miss a thing- every single detail, from her dress and her make-up to her behaviour and the things she said would be read into thrice over, that has a given. She had to meet his standards, she had to impress him; she couldn't leave anything to chance if she was going to make this work. She had been given a chance and she was damned if she was going back into the quiet invisibility of the friend-zone- if she could even be called his friend.

Although, her conscience did have a point- she was going to be late at this rate, and she'd rather be unsuitably dressed than late. Strolling over to Toby's nest, she looked through the contents of it. At the very bottom of the pile, she finally found something she deemed suitable. Covered up by some of her jumpers, she hadn't seen it at first, and the jumpers had managed to protect it so that it was almost completely cat-hair free (as free as you can get when you own a cat). It was as close to perfect as she was going to get- a modest aubergine tea dress with slight runching at the neckline and a gathered waist. It fell to just above the knee- flattering but not too revealing, Molly thought.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Molly slipped the dress over her head and looked at her reflection in the full length mirror. She was pleasantly surprised; the dress seemed to accentuate her curves without making her look plump, and showed just enough leg to be flirtatious but not tarty. For one of the first times in a long while, Molly had to admit she looked good. She only hoped Sherlock would agree. "He will do." She said to herself, with more confidence than she actually felt.

"He _has _to."

Half an hour later, Molly got her breath back in the back of her cab. It had been frantic, but she'd done it; ish. To be honest, the dress had been about where her luck had run out. Her hair was rather messily curled with the side portions clipped hastily back, and though her make-up was only simple, (just a little bit of powder, some lipstick, a dash of pencil liner around the corners of her eyes and just a touch of mascara) she had managed to muck it up several times. Currently, her lipstick was still a bit smudged and she only had mascara on one eye, but she had enough time to redo it in the cab. If only her hands weren't shaking so much! Anxiety was beginning to wind its cold hands around her heart and squeeze tight- so tight she could hardly breathe. What if Sherlock shunned her? What if he was only asking her out to bribe her into getting yet more morgue access and body parts? What if he didn't really care about her at all?

Molly swallowed down the tears that were threatening to spill from her made-up eyes at those thoughts and took some deep breaths to calm herself.

"Don't be stupid Molly," She internally scolded herself. "He wouldn't take it this far if he was just using you, surely? And besides, he sounded genuine enough when he asked…"

Who was she kidding?

Sherlock Holmes would do any damn thing he wanted, and didn't she know it? If he wanted to use her for body parts, he would. If he wanted to shun her, he would. And as for caring? Well only time could tell. She tried to think of something else, to take her mind off it, but whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Sherlock. Well, that was nothing new, but this was different- her pessimism was seeping into her thoughts, and all she could see was Sherlock laughing. At her. Making fun of her. And it hurt.

She had had enough of him hurting her. Every single time he used her cut her to the bone, and she had had enough. Tonight was a real leap of faith, and if it failed, it failed for good. No more second chances.

As the cab neared the restaurant Sherlock had booked, Molly felt her stomach lurch. She hoped she hadn't underdone her make-up- it was very basic, but then again, she had a gut-feeling that Sherlock wasn't the type of person who found lots of make-up attractive. She had to laugh at herself. Five hours ago she wouldn't have said Sherlock Holmes found _anything _attractive, let alone her- she had completely given up hope on ever winning him over, and the idea of her being his type, with or without make-up, was (hurtfully) ludicrous. Now, she was sat in the back of a cab on her way to have dinner with him- a man she had loved for almost four years, with absolutely no sign of reciprocation before 14:23 that afternoon and who might possibly, by the end of the evening, be her boyfriend.

Molly started at that realisation. The cloud of butterflies that was already floating around her stomach multiplied by tenfold. Sherlock- _Sherlock- _could be her boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

Sherlock wouldn't approve of that term. It was too common, too sentimental, too…ordinary.

But what term would he approve of? Lover? Partner? Significant Other?

Molly caught herself with an audible laugh. Was she really getting so ahead of herself that she was wondering what to term their non-existent relationship? Gracious, she must collect herself or she would end up the stammering wreck she always became. Mousy Molly, the other pathologists called her. That was another thing that wasn't suitable for a date.

Suitability, again.

It always came back around to suitability. But how could _anyone _second-guess what Sherlock Holmes would deem suitable, for anything?

As the cab turned into the car park and the restaurant loomed in the darkness, Molly was suddenly, inexplicably at peace with the situation. The entire process of working herself up into a state over this evening had been a waste of time. She didn't need to worry about what was suitable and what wasn't- and she doubted Sherlock would bother himself with something so trivial either. The cab came to a halt and Molly opened the door with an air of new-found confidence.

"_You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you."_

Sherlock's words from long ago echoed in her brain as she strode towards the restaurant's open door, heels clicking steadily against the asphalt. The realisation that came with them put a smile on her face;

Sherlock wasn't looking for suitable. He was looking for her.

.

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**A/N: I really don't like that ending but I couldn't think of anything better and it's 10:50pm and I'm sleepy, so it will do. If you like this story, please review, I'm not kidding when I say they are literally my inspiration, to know that people actually read my stuff, so if you love it or hate it, please just take ten seconds to say what you think. If I don't get many this time around, I might not bother to continue this particular fic. If I do get lots of lovely reviews, this story might continue under a different name, cos 'sentimental musings' suited it when it was a one-shot, but it isn't just Sherlock's musings anymore, it has an actual plot, so watch out for name changes. Thank you for reading!**

**~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch x**


	3. Chapter 3: Overdrive

**Hello my lovelies :) I got a MUCH better response to the last chapter, so as promised, here is another instalment. I'm more pleased with this one- I like writing from Sherlock's POV as I love exploring his character. Also, this one's longer, and as far as chapters go, longer is usually better! Anyway, enjoy! **

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

_Couple at opposite table, man clearly nervous, tapping his foot on the floor. He has a high-end job, probably in accounting from the tie, dressed up smart- very smart, almost too smart for the restaurant- and keeps absently touching his pocket… mark on his right ring finger, a tan line. Wedding ring only recently removed… about to propose to the woman in front of him, with whom he's been having a secret affair… woman is younger, much more so than him. She is a struggling primary school teacher, her dress has been re-hemmed three- no, four- times, only posh dress she has. Hoping to make an impression, although she isn't interested in his conversation, keeps looking away bored… She doesn't know she is his mistress, but is only with him for his money…_

_ Coat stand, ornate brass, inspired by French renaissance period, in the £100-£200 price bracket, two to three years old…_

Sherlock's observational senses were going into overdrive, analysing everything and everyone in his sight. Anything to keep his mind off the situation he was in- what he was about to do, and who he was waiting for. Where _was _she?

_Waiter serving table nine, very hyper-aware, keeps looking around nervously…alert but bored expression…perhaps he is new to the job, perhaps he has something to hide… the way he catches the falling champagne bottle, very quick reflexes… regimental posture, walks with purpose…tan lines clear on his hands and face, been abroad, but not on holiday… he is ex-army, unable to find another job but waiting tables, doesn't like it but needs to pay the bills._

_ Family at table seven, middle-class citizens, parents both lawyers, the two daughters attend a private boarding school in Surrey- no, Sussex Downs judging by the soil deposits on the shoe…mother is a cocaine addict judging from the red marks around the nostrils… has taken to dealing to make ends meet…serious debts… glancing around a lot, accusing stare…possibly there with family as a cover for meeting a customer who owes big-time?_

The noises of the busy restaurant, the chatter of the diners, the clinks of metal cutlery on porcelain plates, scrapes of chairs, clatters of pans, all of it seemed to be closing in on Sherlock. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Two minutes to seven. Two minutes to show-time. Never had he been so nervous… indeed he couldn't remember the last time he was nervous before today. Sherlock didn't really get nerves; he hadn't thought he was capable of experiencing such weak, mundane and _ordinary _things as emotions. All that mattered was the thoughts of relevance. Emotions, trivia and _sentiment_ only took up valuable space in the vast database of his brain.

So what was he doing _here? _Sitting at a table for two at a relatively upmarket restaurant, waiting for a woman whom he…

Sherlock caught himself before he said some utterly sentimental rubbish.

_For Christ's sake, don't let yourself fall foul of something so positively _ordinary! _Just get back to deductions…_

_Woman to the right, sat alone… drinking her third glass of wine, twiddling her dirty wedding ring on her left ring finger…unhappily married… alcoholic, history of substance abuse, depressed judging by the blank expression and the creases and dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep…there are sleeping pills and a large wad of cash in her handbag on the floor by her feet… someone has dirt on her who she needs to pay off… meeting her here, but no second place is set-_

_-Napkin, Egyptian cotton, natural dyes used, washed two days ago, traces of a curry stain-_

_-painting on the wall, copy of an early twentieth century piece, likely inspired by the work of Henri-_

Sherlock's hyperactive brain, fidgety with nerves, flitted from one deduction to the next, leaving them half-hollow and unfinished, faster than he could process it all, and the noises were closing in, so loud he felt like screaming. He wasn't sure how much longer he could take of the thrum in his veins and the pulse in his head, the fatty smell of frying meat and the dim lighting, all of it was becoming too much to bear-

A cool hand on his shoulder snapped him out of his fretful reverie, soothing his frazzled brain and easing his senses like a balm. He let it wash over him like sleep after a run of sleepless nights. His mind fell beautifully, blissfully blank and he closed his eyes for a moment in relief. It only lasted a second however, before his stomach knotted once more: she was here.

"Sherlock," She prompted quietly, in a nervous tone. Just hearing her whisper his name was enough to send shivers down his spine. _No. _

"_Sherlock?!" _She said again, louder. Once again he let it sink into his bones, before turning round sharply and jumping to his feet, all too eagerly.

"Moll- "

He couldn't quite make his mouth finish her name; he froze mid-greeting, positively stunned by the sight before him. Molly was dressed in a simple satin tea-dress, aubergine in colour, which hugged her figure perfectly, and wrapped in a black cotton shawl. Her hair was lightly curled and shining almost iridescently in the soft light of the restaurant, like copper. Her make-up was minimal, though more than she usually wore, and slightly rushed. He suspected she'd done it in the cab, but the slight smudges and inaccuracies only endeared her to him more. It was so typically _her _and yet so different to how she usually dressed. He never knew she could look so feminine, so beautiful, so…perfect. And it took his breath away.

"Sherlock, are you ok?" She asked, shyly and concernedly, after almost a minute of silence.

"I... I, um, yes, fine, you… you look stunning." He said honestly, embarrassed by the sentimentality and the timidity which had suddenly come over him. _Why on Earth am I behaving like this?_

Molly's cheeks flushed crimson. "Sherlock!" She said surprised. "Tha-thank you. You look nice too. Well when I say nice, I mean h-handsome- or, not that's a bit old fashioned isn't it, erm, so no, you look…good? Um…no…"

Sherlock watched her silently curse herself for stammering. He could see the time she had spent trying to prepare for this, both mentally and physically, and somehow knowing he wasn't the only one feeling out of their depth calmed him a little more. Silently and gently, he took her hand and led her to her chair, effectively hushing her in the process. She blushed deeper still, but said nothing.

Sherlock took his seat opposite her and steepled his hands under his chin, his head seemingly vacant of the amazing mind it usually contained, but he looked at her with warmth, interest and concentration, rather than the blankness his eyes took on when he was in his mind palace. Sherlock Holmes was very much in the room.

"Hello." He said quietly after a minute, smiling genuinely at Molly.

"Hello." She replied, unable to supress a grin and a giggle.

"What's amusing you?" Sherlock asked warmly."

"Oh, nothing, just… well, look at us! Just look!"

Sherlock looked. He saw a beautiful woman whom he…cared for… smiling happily. The room seemed to dance around her as it was lit up by her smile. But he also saw what she meant; the detective and the pathologist. How unlikely.

"I see. It's taken a while hasn't it?"

"A very long while!" agreed Molly. "Still, they say good things come to those who wait."

"Hmm, well we've certainly waited."

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment, before a waiter came over and asked if they wanted to order drinks.

"We'll have a bottle of champagne." Sherlock said sharply. "Please." He added, in a softer tone, after receiving a warning glare from Molly. She always kept him right.

"Champagne, how sentimental of you," Molly commented after the waiter had left.

"It's the standard beverage for a date." Sherlock countered. "But yes, it rather is isn't it? Oh dear."

"There's nothing bad about sentiment, Sherlock. I'm sure you know that really, otherwise how would we have come to be sat here?"

"Do you know that I've been wondering that for the past fifteen minutes, and I can't come up with a better answer than 'because Molly Hooper.' Full stop. Not a single other parameter has changed in my daily routine except for a startling attachment to you, ergo the conclusion must be drawn that we are sat here because of you. You bring out the sentiment in me Molly."

Molly blushed again and looked down at her hands in her lap to hide her smile. It was ridiculously sexy.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." She mumbled.

"Quite the contrary. Just don't tell John I said that, I won't hear the end of it!" Sherlock replied, as the waiter brought them their champagne. He poured them each a glass.

"Well on that note, I propose a toast." He said, raising his glass. "To those who wait, and the good things that come to them."

Molly laughed and their glasses met with a satisfying 'chink.'

They drank and they talked and they laughed, and soon Sherlock found he was genuinely enjoying himself. Molly told him of the staggering array of strange and unusual post-mortems she had performed, some of them remarkably funny, although they wouldn't be funny if told by anyone else: Molly had a surprisingly humorous side which he had never discovered before. They ordered their starters, hers a salmon terrine and his a portion of lobster ravioli, and ate them slowly, with a generous amount of chatter in between mouthfuls. Sherlock talked her through the leads on his latest case, a perplexing eight, and she pointed out flaws in the wife's alibi that he hadn't even noticed. Moriarty once told him that his problem was that he always wanted everything to be clever, and that was true, but as Molly pointed out the simple things that his genius had over-looked, he found himself thinking that they made a great team. With John being busy with Mary and the coming baby, there would soon be a vacancy for 'blogger', and right now Sherlock could think of nobody better than Molly to fill John's shoes. He would have to offer later, provided he hadn't repelled her by then. Although after however many years it had been, he doubted there was anything Sherlock could do to repel her that she hadn't already sat through. She was a welcome constancy in his ever changing life, and he was only beginning to understand how much she meant to him.

_Oh enough of that, the champagne's making you light-headed. Get back to the conversation._

Starter quickly lapsed into main course, Sherlock's a fillet steak and Molly's the sea-bass. The food was good, and Sherlock found that the more he ate, the more he felt hungry, another feeling on the list of things Molly brought back to him. It was like she was restoring him, piece by piece, with every moment they spent together. She was making him human again. He watched her as she ate, telling another hilarious anecdote about her time at medical school. Her eyes were bright with interest and her face was radiant. She had really opened up, he thought. The stammering, shy pathologist, Mousy Molly, was gone, and he had never seen her look so happy. It made _him_ happy to see her that way.

His mind seemed to be at rest too. Though he still observed (he always did, he couldn't just turn it off like a tap), he didn't feel the need to link his observations into long, probing, calculating deductions. He was content just sitting with Molly, just for once enjoying human company. Everything appeared so perfect, it was almost too good to be true.

And indeed it was.

Their desserts had been ordered and Sherlock was mightily looking forward to the prospect of sticky toffee pudding, something he hadn't had since he was a child. Molly, who had opted for tarte au citron, was telling yet another story and he was finding himself lost in her warm brown eyes as the combination of a good meal and plenty of champagne made him feel contented and a little sleepy.

"…She looked ridiculous, I mean I've never seen such a dodgy haircut, but she was so adamant that her granddaughter was the most talented trainee of the lot of them, she didn't rebook or even alter it for fear of hurting her feelings…"

Sherlock never knew Molly had such a bubbly, outgoing personality. She was one of those people with lots of hidden talents, he supposed, hidden by a mask of timidity. He wanted to unravel her completely, discover and cherish every single talent she hid- but not before he devoured the sticky toffee pudding that the waiter was bringing over as she spoke.

"…And I said to Madeline-"

But Sherlock never got to find out what Molly said to Madeline, nor did he get to taste the sticky toffee pudding. At that moment, something happened which drew everyone's attention in a heartbeat. Molly stopped talking, the waiter dropped their desserts, and the general meandering hubbub of the restaurant came to a screeching halt, all paralysed with shock as the sound rebounded off the walls, filling Sherlock's stomach with a toxic mixture of adrenaline and dread;

A single gunshot turned the world nasty again.

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**A/N: oooohhh, cliffhanger! sorry guys, I'm so nasty aren't I? Also, I'm still toying with the idea of changing the name of this fic, 'Sentimental Musings' doesn't fit when part of it is from Molly's POV. I was considering calling it 'To those who wait', as Molly has certainly waited for Sherlock, and I think Sherlock has been waiting for Molly without really knowing it. Also, it's a quote that I liked from this chapter, and I like using quotes as titles- I think all my other fics have them. But nothing is concrete and I am DEFINITELY open to suggestions, so if you have anything better to suggest or you want to give me feedback on the idea of 'To those who wait', or even if you want me to keep it as 'sentimental musings,' feel free to tell me in a review- I love reviews, even bad ones, so come on guys give me feedback! **

**Oh, by the way, updates should be about every two weeks since I know where the plot is going, but i'm still really busy :(**

**~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch x**


	4. Chapter 4: Urgency

**Hello my lovelies! Sorry it has been so long since my latest update, but it's half term and I've been on holiday to a rainy welsh village with no internet access. Fun -_- No, I'm kidding it was lovely but I was forced to neglect you all, which is not so lovely, so to apologise, here is the first of TWO extra-long, extra-action-filled chapters! In case it's confusing, the first bit is Sherlock's POV and the second is Molly's POV. Also guys notice the name change to the fic! I decided to go with 'To Those Who Wait' for reasons explained in the author's note of the last chapter, and because most people told me to just change it to whatever I wanted. Anyway, happy reading!**

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

_Bang._

_A single gunshot turned the world nasty again._

Within a fraction of a second Sherlock was on his feet, before the other diners- Molly included- had even registered the shot. How could he have been so stupid? The depressed wife with the troubled marriage, the couple of such different ages and classes having the secret affair, the edgy waiter with the history of military service- even with the drug addiction red-herring, the pattern had been so clear, so obvious, but in his nervous distraction his frantic mind had skipped right over it.

All that thought process in the split second it took for the gunshot to sound.

"Stupid!" he cursed himself aloud.

"What?" He thought he heard Molly question, but the sound didn't quite meet his ears, it was too muffled, too fuzzy, as though he was underwater. Irrelevance, even uttered from Molly's sweet mouth, was already being filtered out: the game was on again.

The sound of the shot amalgamated with that of a piercing scream- the young mistress of the cheating accountant no doubt- as Sherlock leapt over the table like a cheater giving chase to its prey. The victim (the cheating accountant) didn't matter, nor did his wife or his mistress. Their emotion and panicking and sentiment would only further cloud his judgement, making it all too messy and detached. Besides, there were people around- Molly for instance- with medical training who could help them. What mattered now was catching the waiter, who, after firing the shot, had begun to peg it towards the door, which, breaking into a run, is where Sherlock now headed.

"Sherlock!" He heard Molly call after him, questioningly, but the game was on and he had to ignore it.

"_Sherlock!" _She called out again, pleading, almost desperately. He couldn't help it, he had to turn back. Poor Molly looked traumatised, her brow creased with worry. He ran back to her, let the sentiment show just a little by cupping her face and planting a kiss on her forehead, smiled as genuinely as he could, then turned to continue the chase, but Molly caught his hand.

"Sherlock," She murmured. "Stay safe, please." The pained look in her eyes betrayed how scared she really was.

Sherlock squeezed her hand by way of reply. He couldn't bring himself to answer that- he pretended it was because if he let himself, the sentiment would seep into his brain and affect his judgement, surging like water into his mind-palace and flooding it in tidal waves (as if it wasn't doing that already), but really he wasn't sure how to answer it. Not yet. He wasn't ready for that sort of commitment- he had committed a lot today, let a lot of things in, let his defences down almost completely, but he had to retain some detachment, had to keep some control- before Molly made him relinquish it all completely.

Being out of control scared Sherlock Holmes.

"See to the victim," He said, letting go of her hand.

"What can I do?!" she spluttered in disbelief.

Sherlock looked at her and hoped she could see just how much she was changing him, just how much he was starting to care and just how much faith he had in her.

"Save his life."

He couldn't stay to see her response- couldn't bear to. Instead he detached himself once more and raced out of the door, praying the waiter hadn't gotten too far ahead of him. Sherlock's feet pounded on the concrete pavement, ringing sonorously as he turned into the damp alleyway at the side of the restaurant, where the bins were kept. His fingers flew to his phone in his pocket, dialling Lestrade. His agitated voice appeared at the other end of the line.

"What the bloody hell do you want Sherlock, I thought you were on a date?"

John had told him then.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trust Graham to joke at a time like this.

"If it's relationship advice you're after mate, I'm hardly-"

"Gareth, shut up and listen, there's been a shooting at the restaurant, the waiter did it, I'm chasing him down and Molly's with the victim, get here as fast as you can, and bring back-up!"

He hung up without another word, spotting a figure beginning to scramble over the tall brick wall at the far end of the alley. His pace quickened.

Sherlock often bragged to John about the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in their veins, and about it being just the two of them against the world. But now he was alone, and for the first time in his life, he wished he wasn't. Perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was being in such good company all night, but now it was only him chasing, not he and John, nor, dare he say it, him and Molly, and he missed that.

He missed her.

Sherlock tried to isolate the growing sentiment inside him- he had to detach from it, or it would swallow him whole. Instead he focused on quickening his pace and pounding faster towards the wall, for the waiter was almost over it. He had deduced that he had dropped the gun- it was a hand gun, he was wearing no kind of belt or rucksack in which he could keep it, and even an ex-army man couldn't climb so easily holding it; besides, he could see no silhouette of such an object, which, even though the alley was only dimly lit by a faltering street lamp and the light from the windows of the restaurant, he would be able to if he still held it.

A thought came to him: if he could get the man to panic, he might lose his footing on the wall and slip, slowing him down enough for Sherlock to catch him. It was a risk- approximately a 1 in 6 chance of working, given he had military training and was good under pressure, but he had to have been sent home for some reason- too young to retire and not likely to have left his position since he was still young and he couldn't have been there long enough to work up a decent army pension - probably discharged for either PTSD or more likely an injury, both of which would impede his progress and/or reactions. It was a risk, but Sherlock thought it was worth it.

His voice rang out, reverberating off the damp alley walls: "Stop, police!"

It worked. The waiter looked around in panic at the same time as speeding up his pace on the top of the wall, resulting in him losing his balance and practically throwing himself over the other side. Sherlock heard him land with a satisfying 'thump' followed by a pained groan.

The waiter's fall gave Sherlock time to catch up. He threw himself at the wall and forced himself over it, just in time to see a limping waiter carry himself round the corner. Sherlock grinned to himself as he hopped down from the wall: he had him now. It took no more than ten seconds for him to apprehend the injured waiter, who didn't put up much of a fight. Sherlock whipped out his hand cuffs and snapped them on him, before dialling Lestrade again. He could hear sirens in the distance.

"Lestrade, outside the chip shop at the far end of Bridge Street- I've got him."

The game was won.

.

.

.

Sherlock let go of her hand, and Molly started to feel alone again. It was a feeling she was used to, and old friend almost. Growing up as an only child and her father dying so young, she and her mother had always been alone. Now her mother was deteriorating in a nursing home, and Molly didn't even have her anymore. She was alone. Again.

There had been a time tonight when just a tiny part of her had thought she might not been alone anymore. Their date had been going so well and maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would have taken her back to her apartment, come in for a coffee, and not left. Maybe he would have kissed her underneath a cornucopia of stars and silently followed her in to stay the night.

Maybe.

But now he had left as well, off on his dangerous chase after the criminal, and all she had now was an ache in her heart and the burning imprint of his lips on her forehead. His words echoed in her head: "_see to the victim… save his life…" _

She knew what she had to do.

Molly pushed through the crowds of people around the victim. His girlfriend was sobbing into his hair and an older woman, perhaps in her fifties, was shouting at her emotionally.

"It was supposed to be you! You! Not him! Oh Robert, Robert I'm so sorry!"

The hysterical girlfriend was shouting back. "Who are you? I've never seen you before in my life, how do you know his name? What do you mean it was supposed to be me?" And then to the victim: "Oh Robert darling, speak to me!"

There was a woman trying to treat his wounds, but she looked like she didn't have a clue what she was doing. The sooner Molly got over to him the better.

She tapped the woman who was nursing him lightly on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, I'm a doctor, I'll take it from here." She said, surprised at how confident and calm she sounded. The woman gladly stepped aside and Molly knelt beside the victim. She felt for a pulse. It was faint but there.

"Can anyone tell me his name and age?" she asked, opening his shirt to inspect the wound more closely.

"His name is Robert Dawlish, he's 53" wept the girlfriend. "He-" her voice cracked. "He's my boyfriend."

"He's my _husband!" _Said the older woman, holding out a trembling hand to show a wedding ring on her left ring finger. "And you stole him from me!"

"Ladies please!" Molly tried to call them to order, their incessant shouting was not helping anything. "Save this for when you know he isn't your _dead _husband or boyfriend."

That shut them up. At last, thought Molly, some quiet so she could concentrate.

A woman came back over to the group looking urgent. "I've called an ambulance," she announced.

"Good," Molly said distractedly. The wound was pretty bad, but though it looked to have punctured his right lung, it seemed to have missed his heart- a good sign. Molly found herself repeating all this off hand as she examined him, slipping into surgeon mode. It had been so long since she'd worked as a surgeon, but she fell into it again as easily as if it were yesterday. The wound was bleeding badly, so she took off her shawl and scrunched it up, then pressed it hard against the wound to stem the blood flow. Robert made some pained noises in response, causing both women to whimper.

"It's normal, the shock is starting to wear off and he's beginning to feel the pain." She explained.

"The pain _you _caused him!" muttered the girlfriend bitterly to the wife, who made no response.

"Can I help?" she asked. "Please?"

"Keep pressing that down on the wound, we need to stem the blood flow." Molly instructed, and the wife did as she was told.

"Now, honey, what's your name?" she said gently to the girlfriend.

"Anna," she replied shakily.

"Right, Anna, we need to see if there's an exit wound, or if the bullet is still inside him, so I need you to help me turn him onto his side very quickly, but very, _very _gently. If the bullet is still inside him, we need to get him onto his back again straight away, because gravity will keep it lodged for us, and that might be blocking lots of the blood-flow. Ok?"

Anna nodded. "And if it isn't?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, ok? On the count of three, one, two, three."

Molly and Anna turned Robert over with gentle urgency. He made some more noises of pain, but Molly reassured Anna that that was normal. She inspected the back of his shirt: there was no blood; the bullet was trapped inside.

"Ok, Anna, it's still inside him, so help me turn him back very gently. Um, wife, what's your name?"

"Margaret." Replied the wife sombrely.

"Margaret, keep putting pressure on that wound."

Very carefully, Anna and Molly turned Robert back. He made less noise this time, which worried Molly, but she knew she couldn't let on that he might be slipping away.

There were ambulance sirens in the distance now, and police cars, getting closer but Molly knew it might be too late. She took Robert's pulse again: even fainter- if it dropped any lower he had a chance of going into cardiac arrest, but even gentle CPR might dislodge the bullet. The sirens were still a good three minutes away, and Robert was struggling to hold on; he was entering cardiac arrest and Molly had no choice- she had to act fast.

"Ok so here's what we're going to do- someone wait outside for the ambulance and tell the paramedics that he's going into cardiac arrest, we might need a defibrillator- does anyone know where the nearest one is?"

A murmurs of 'no' and terrified bewilderment met her query: she would have to act fast.

When she spoke again, her tone had taken on a new level of urgency. "Margret, it's imperative that you keep pressing on that wound. Anna, I'm going to do CPR to try and restart his heart."

"Restart?!" Interjected Anna, horrified.

"Yes. There's nothing more you can do really but sit back and hope."

Molly had performed CPR before of course, many times, but she hadn't ever had to do it to a patient with a delicately lodged bullet just centimetres form the heart. This was going to be tough. She began to pound hard and steadily on his ribcage, willing him to make it, but so far he was unresponsive. She had to try harder- his lips were beginning to turn blue- but she wasn't sure how much harder she could go without causing more issues with the bullet. Uncertainty and panic shrouded her movements as she pumped on, desperately feeling for a pulse.

Molly Hooper was scared.

Then, somehow, her fear manifested itself as Sherlock. She could see him beside her, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. Unbeknownst to her, the touch soothed her as hers had soothed him just hours earlier. "You can do it." He whispered. And she believed him.

Mustering all her strength, Molly pushed down rhythmically on Robert's heart, praying for a miracle.

She got one. Robert's heart began to respond, unsteadily at first but gaining strength with every beat. He was going to pull through.

Molly Hooper had saved his life... with just a little help from Mr Sherlock Holmes.

**.**

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**A/N: Aww, all's well that ends well :) Just a note, I am not a medical professional, and I know nothing about shot wound treatment, so if any of this is majorly flawed, I am very sorry. Any doctors/nurses/surgeons/paramedics etc out there, feel free to correct me. Thanks for reading guys and please review, they give me the motivation to continue when you're in a rainy welsh village and all you can see is sheep. The other 'apology chapter' will be up very soon, I just need to tweak it a little- warning in advance, there is established Sherlolly and major fluff!**

**My very best belated Halloween wishes to you all,**

**AdlockedMrsCumberbatch xxx**


	5. Chapter 5: Release

**Hello my lovelies! Here is the second 'apology chapter'- get ready for a rollercoaster of extreme fluff and established Sherlolly! :D**

**To all of you that keep reviewing this humble fic of mine, lots of love and heartfelt thanks, and please continue to do so! 3**

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

Moly felt herself relax as his Robert's heart started to beat on its own, just as the ambulance and police cars screamed round the corner. The paramedics were shown in and they came in droves, each one bringing more relief to Molly. Her part was played, now it was over to them.

She recited off the information she had about Robert to them.

"Robert Dawlish, 53, shot wound to the right side of the chest, no exit wound so the bullet must still be inside him, went into cardiac arrest about two minutes ago but I gave him CPR and now he's stable."

She recognised one of the paramedics as an old work colleague of hers- Pamela- and she was smiling.

"You did all the right things Molly, well done. You might just have saved this man's life."

They strapped Robert into a stretcher and carried him out, and an enormous round of applause erupted for Molly. She swelled with pride, and Anna and Margaret came over to each thank her, then Anna went in the ambulance with Robert, while a police officer went to talk to Margaret.

No sooner had the ambulance left, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing, Sherlock came into the restaurant with Lestrade. Molly ran to him, desperately relieved to see he was ok.

"Sherlock!" She called, throwing herself at him, forgetting his dislike for intimacy in her joy at not being alone anymore. To her surprise however, he didn't flinch back. He stiffened for a moment, as if unsure of what to do, then he gave in and put his arms around her. Molly couldn't contain her grin.

"I'm so pleased you're ok!"

Sherlock chuckled and she felt it rumble deep in his chest against her cheek.

"A little out of breath but otherwise fine- he'd dropped the gun already you see." Sherlock replied. "How was the victim, not good?"

"Well the bullet missed his heart, but it was lodged inside him- no exit wound- and he was losing a lot of blood. He went into cardiac arrest a few minutes before the ambulance showed up, but I... well, I got him back." Said Molly, still in disbelief.

"I told you." Said Sherlock, smugly.

"What?" said Molly, pulling away from his chest to look up at him, confused.

"You said what can I do, and I said save his life. You saved his life." Sherlock explained.

Molly blushed. She was pretty sure there was a compliment in there somewhere.

Lestrade, who had been watching the pair in shocked amusement, was beginning to feel quite awkward standing there while _Sherlock _of all people hugged Molly, so he cleared his throat. The two sprang apart sheepishly, as if they were two teenagers caught by their parents, and Lestrade couldn't help but laugh. He'd never get his head round that man.

"So Sherlock, are you going to talk me through these leads of yours or what?"

"Oh come on Gavin-"

"Greg!" corrected Molly and Lestrade in unison.

"Fine, Greg," said Sherlock huffily. "Surely even you should be able to work this out, it's so obvious!"

"But you think everything is obvious Sherlock!" replied Lestrade. "Molly, how on earth are you putting up with this?!" He asked in disbelief.

"Actually Greg, this one is quite easy." Said Molly, earning her shocked glances from both men.

"You worked it out?" Sherlock asked, looking genuinely impressed.

"Yes." She replied. "It was the wife- Margaret- but Robert wasn't the intended victim, it was supposed to be Anna, the girlfriend- Margaret said something about 'it was supposed to be you not him.'"

"Go on," pressed Sherlock.

"Well, Margaret and Robert were unhappily married- Margaret was depressed, she showed signs of lack of sleep and there were pills in her bag, and she kept twisting her ring on her finger- you told me that was an indication for unhappy marriage." She said to Sherlock.

"Well observed." Replied Sherlock.

"Thanks." Said Molly, blushing again. "The unhappiness is likely to have stemmed from Robert's affair with a younger woman- Anna. I don't believe she knew she was his mistress though, Robert removed his ring to see her- tan line on his ring finger. Anyway, quite simply, Margaret wanted Anna dead, but she didn't want to risk going to prison for it, so she had the money in her bag to pay the waiter to shoot her, but as he shot at her, Robert got up and came round to the side of Anna to propose to her, just in time to take the bullet instead. Simple."

Once Molly had finished, Lestrade stared at her, agog, while Sherlock just grinned from ear to ear.

"You're skills of deduction are deceptively sharp, Miss Hooper, I'm impressed." Said Sherlock. "Perhaps you should replace John- he's an idiot compared to you."

"Steady on Sherlock!" Joked Lestrade. "You'll be asking her to marry you by the end of the week!"

Lestrade's joke was lost on the pair, and met with awkward silence on both sides.

"Anyway, um Lestrade, you know who you need to arrest, the wife for conspiracy to murder and the waiter for attempted murder." Sherlock mumbled.

"Yes, thank you Sherlock, but believe it or not I do know how to do my job." Quipped Lestrade.

"Debatable." Sherlock countered, causing Molly to stifle a giggle.

"Anyway, Sherlock thanks for all your help mate, but seriously this is your date, take Molly home, she looks done in." said Lestrade, looking at Molly, who was trying not to yawn, in concern.

Sherlock looked at her and saw that Lestrade was probably right.

"Well then, um, goodnight Geoff- I mean Greg."

"Goodnight you two, use protection." He said with a wink before sauntering off to instruct the rest of the homicide division, while Sherlock guided Molly to the door.

"I was really looking forward to that sticky toffee pudding." Sherlock mused as they walked down to hail a cab.

Molly erupted in giggles. "Seriously? _That's_ your main qualm about tonight?"

"Well, obviously I'm upset about your tarte au citron too, I mean I'm not heartless or anything," Said Sherlock, and Molly hit his arm playfully.

The wind had got up and turned slightly chilly, and Molly shivered without her shawl, which had been taken with Robert in the ambulance. Sherlock noticed and wondered whether he should do something. Racking his mind palace for 'what you should do when your date is cold', he remembered John giving Mary his coat if the three of them were out together and she got cold.

"Are you cold?" he questioned, stating the obvious much to his disdain, but he'd rather state the obvious than be mistaken. He didn't like being mistaken.

"Just a little," replied Molly, "I'll be fine when we get in a cab."

"That could be a while, given that it's ten o'clock on a Friday evening, lots of people will be getting cabs. Take my coat in the meantime." He said, shrugging out of it and draping it round her shoulders before she could protest.

"Are you sure?" asked Molly, but pulling it tighter around her all the same. "Won't you be cold now?"

"I'd rather I was cold than you," He said meekly, annoyed at the sentimentality of the statement, but somehow deeply pleased by it too- there was something so wonderful about seeing Molly swamped by the heavy fabric of the coat, something so right. He felt a sudden wish to see her wearing his clothes more often, which did nothing but baffle him.

Molly meanwhile was still getting over the fact that the emotionless consulting detective was concerned for her wellbeing, and that he had deigned to do something as romantic as give her his coat. Tucked inside the folds of dense wool, she felt cosy and safe- the thing was perfumed with Sherlock's scent, which despite driving her absolutely crazy (God only knew how arousing she found that smell) always brought a sense of belonging and security to Molly's lonely bones. As it was, she could barely croak out a 'thank you.'

After about ten minutes, they managed to hail a cab. Molly gave the address of her flat to the cabbie and settled next to Sherlock.

"Are you warmer now?" he asked her.

"Much, thank you. Your coat's so cosy, I can see why you like it so much." Said Molly.

"Well, you can borrow it again, if you like." Sherlock said in an awkward attempt to secure another date. _Must have been the champagne talking _he told himself, but that didn't explain the fuzziness in his stomach at the thought of seeing Molly again.

Molly, however, saw right through him as usual. "When would I need to wear it again?" she asked, somewhat flirtatiously.

"Oh, I don't know, if you were cold…if we did this again?"

There. He'd said it, and somehow he felt a lot lighter for doing so.

"Do what, chase down criminals and restart hearts?" teased Molly.

"Well, that's all in a day's work for us isn't it really?" chuckled Sherlock.

"Yes, I suppose it is, except my job usually involves hearts that are well past restarting."

Sherlock was sure that a sentimentalist would find it awfully poetic that Molly seemed to have restarted his long-still heart, but he was no such sentimentalist, so as he helped Molly out of the cab when it drew up to the curb outside her flat, he chose not to mention it.

On the curb, Molly lingered outside the door to her block of flats while Sherlock paid the cabbie. When he turned round, Sherlock couldn't help but notice how radiant she looked in the dim orange light from the street lamps. She seemed to glow.

"Um, much as I enjoy chasing down criminals and saving lives with you Molly," Sherlock began uncertainly, holding the door to the block open for her. He remembered what John had said before he left to ask Molly to dinner that afternoon- "_take charge of the situation, put her at ease." _

"What I was actually referring to was dinner." They began to amble up the stairs. "Would you, er, would you like to have dinner again- with me?"

Molly had indeed seen this coming since his stunt with the coat, but it still sent an electric pulse of excitement coursing down her spine

"I would," She smiled ecstatically. "Despite everything, I've had a really nice time, and yes, I would like that."

"Good." Said Sherlock, not even bothering to hide a smile. "That is to say, I'd like that too."

"Good." Echoed Molly with a laugh. They'd reached her floor, and they lingered outside her door, neither really sure what to do.

"Do you want to come in for a coffee maybe?" Molly asked, trying to break that awkward silence at the end of a date where neither really wants to be the one to say goodbye and break the spell.

"I, um...no. Thank you, but I should be getting back, or Mrs Hudson will pester me all tomorrow morning about where I've been, and besides, my skull will be feeling lonely."

Molly wasn't sure whether it was the champagne, or just her run of good luck, but something gave her the courage to counter him.

"Your skull's a big boy. Surely he'll be alright on his own just for one night?" she said, slowly and suggestively.

Sherlock knew exactly what she was inferring, but he was torn: part of him wanted to take up her offer and follow her in, the other part wanted to run away as fast as he could; there was a war waging inside him, and Sherlock didn't know which side to fight for, so he did what he always did when he was uncertain, and ignored the comment altogether.

"Thank you for a wonderful evening, I really should be go-"

Molly was having none of it. As usual she could read him like a book: if his conflicted mind couldn't make the decision, she'd have to choose for him, so acting on impulse, she grabbed his hand, turned him back to face her, and before either of them knew it, her lips were on his.

Kissing Sherlock Holmes was exactly how she'd imagined it, yet completely different. His lips were satin smooth and fit against hers like two interlocking puzzle pieces, as seamlessly as she'd imagined, yet there was a tenderness and a gentleness which she'd never thought he could possess. He tasted of the peppercorn sauce he'd had with his steak, an aromatic spiciness that suited him so well. She wanted to stay kissing him forever.

So lost in the moment was she that it took her a while to realise that though his lips were doing all the right things, the rest of Sherlock was far from comfortable. Molly broke away with a chuckle: Sherlock was the image of a confused schoolboy experiencing his first kiss. His arms were clamped by his sides as if they were glued there, his posture was rigid and awkward, and the expression in his wide open eyes was one of sheer bemusement. She had to laugh.

"What?" he asked, more confused than indignant.

"You really don't know what you're doing, do you?" she giggled.

"It may have escaped your notice, but I haven't exactly had much practice in this area." Said Sherlock sheepishly.

"I know, but what about Janine? I know you held her at the very least."

"Yes, but that- that was different, it was for a case and I was- I, I mean… I don't know."

It was endearing to see Sherlock stumble, so vulnerable in his naivety. That big brain of his held vast expanses of knowledge, yet he simply had no clue when it came to matters of the heart.

"Oh Sherlock, it's ok, I'll talk you through it. Come a little closer to me." Molly instructed, and Sherlock obeyed.

"Now put your hands on my waist." She took his hands in hers and guided them to her waist.

"Now, close your eyes, and don't flinch."

Molly waited until she could see those icy jewels disappear behind their lids, then she closed her own eyes and put her lips to his once more.

This time, Sherlock felt a lot more comfortable. Indeed, with Molly leading and reassuring him, he felt for the umpteenth time tonight that this was meant to be. He'd been an idiot to ignore her for so long he realised, as her scent curled around him and intoxicated him and her body pressed into every crevice of his. Their kiss was a lot longer this time, and what was more, Sherlock couldn't see an end point- he wanted to just carry on, stuck in this magical moment forever. The threads of logic and fear that had been tying down his heart for so long were beginning to break one by one, and the funny thing was, each clash of eager lips, each snap of a thread, didn't dent his confidence, but made it grow. Soon Sherlock found himself wanting to deepen the kiss as all thoughts and observations, all sense of deduction, the very base functions of his brain withered away like snow in the sunshine. Molly had been leading up till now, showing him the ropes, but she'd been going slowly so as not to push him too far, and Sherlock wanted more, but he didn't know if Molly wanted to stay taking things slow- he might offend her if he moved too fast. Molly seemed to sense his inner turmoil, and broke the kiss for a moment to gently lean up to his ear and whisper: "it's ok Sherlock, just let go."

So Sherlock did. Just like that, the flood gates were opened, and all the sentiment and the longing and the desires he'd kept pent up all these years came gushing forth in tidal waves, cascading from his mouth into hers. Sherlock relinquished all his control in an almighty release, and he didn't feel scared: he felt empowered. From nowhere, he found the courage to slide his hands down Molly's back, to press her closer to him still, and to ever so tentatively prise her lips open with his tongue, which made Molly light up in a sequence of little moans, only driving Sherlock crazier. In return, Molly moved one of her hands to cup his face and the other to tangle and pull in his mess of raven-coloured curls. Time had slowed down it seemed, and though the world was still fast-paced and chaotic around them, for Sherlock and Molly each second together lasted an eternity.

"Well," breathed Sherlock, breaking the kiss gently. There was something he needed to say and precisely one way in which he felt comfortable to say it: indirectly. "In answer to your earlier question, I believe the skull is more than capable of looking after itself."

Molly's heart beat faster as she realised what she was hearing, and she couldn't help but smile when he continued.

"And besides, I think after tonight's events, you take priority now."

"Are you saying you'll stay?" Molly asked, in incredulous disbelief.

Avoiding the actual question, Sherlock reassumed a mantle of flirtatiousness and pulled her back towards him with the lapels of his coat without really registering that she was still wearing it. "I'm saying I can't think of a single better place to spend my night than with you, Dr Molly Hooper."

Buzzing with excitement from head to foot, Molly moved to initiate another kiss, unable to speak, but she stopped short at Sherlock's quizzical look at the lapels in his hands.

"You're still wearing my coat. Are you not hot?" said Sherlock, unaware of his innuendo.

"Very," replied Molly, not missing a beat, "But if you want it back…" Molly silently opened the door to her flat. "…you'll have to come in and take it off me."

And with that saucy comment lingering in the air, Molly took Sherlock's hand, and led him inside. The coat fell into a pile on the doormat, before the door was kicked firmly shut.

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**A/N: I really enjoyed writing that! I love Sherlock being all fluffy, even though I know it's very OOC- but the point of fluff is that he's OOC isn't it? I tried to write it as methodically and in-character as possible, because I believe when faced with a REAL relationship- not one he's pulling off for a case- Sherlock would be terrified and very out of his depth because so many things are changing and going out of control, and Moffat himself has said that the one thing that scares Sherlock Holmes is loss of control, so there you go. Also, this fic might be coming to a close soon, since I've adapted it from a one-shot and I don't want to drag it out and make it lose its appeal, so there will be one or two more chapters, but if anyone really objects I might be persuaded into continuing, if you suggest what could happen next? There's a challenge for you all, drop me a review or a PM with future plot ideas and you will be loved forever :)**

**Best wishes to you all,**

**AdlockedMrsCumberbatch xxx**


	6. Chapter 6: Reciprocation

**Hello lovely readers! Well some pretty momentous news has emerged since I last updated this- Benedict is engaged, and much to my surprise, not to me! There's a real Mrs Cumberbatch now (or there will be soon) so my username is rendered pretty useless, but it SHALL NOT change- I am his wife in spirit at least. If you don't know how he did it, it was all very sweet and traditional, he put a notice in the forthcoming marriages section of the Times, and reportedly flew to Edinburgh to ask his fiancée's mother's permission to propose- awwwwww I still can't handle the cuteness! But would we expect anything less from a true British gent? **

**Anyway, here is another update for you my lovelies, and just to warn you, get ready for extreme fluff! Anybody with a tendency to squee themselves to death should click off this page now. You have been warned!**

***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

Molly awoke to pale sunlight streaming through the curtains and Toby meowing on top of her, begging for his morning feed; same as always. The pale blue sheets smelt of washing powder, and the clock in the hallway was ticking rhythmically away to itself. Same as always; the smell of coffee brewing in the café across the road was drifting through the cracked-open window and the sound of bustling, early-morning London going about its routine of ordered chaos accompanied her gradual release from sleep's reluctant grip; same as always.

And yet, something was inexplicably different.

It took Molly a couple of seconds to realise what it was that had altered in her schedule of awakening, which was usually unchanging from one morning to the next. She blinked a few times to focus her eyes and mentally shook herself awake. Then, like the impact of a bullet, it hit her all at once: arms.

Strong, warm, _masculine _arms, encircling her waist in a ring of fiery heat. A shiver crept down her spine at the realisation. How long had it been since she'd woken up in arms like these? Too long. The loneliness of being 'Mousy Molly'- overlooked like part of the furniture- had caused the memory of waking to company to fade away and she drank in the nostalgia of the delightful feeling.

The fuzziness and warmth subsided as the arms grew a body. Slowly, Molly became aware of other body parts, a leg entwined with one of her own, a muscular chest pressing between her shoulder blades, a face buried into her neck like he had fallen asleep kissing it; perhaps he had- Molly's memory of the night before was beautifully, blissfully blank.

Given the emptiness of her memory, Molly neither knew nor cared who the owner of the body-parts was: she was simply content to be lying in their embrace, waking up slowly and just for once, not alone. She was only able to put a name to the face when he spoke, jolting her back to reality like 1000 volts of electricity.

His words weren't directed at her, but at Toby, who was still wailing pitifully for attention.

"As opposed to making that infernal racket, why don't you go and forage for something." Said a displeased baritone growl that set her heart racing.

"You were only domesticated nine and a half thousand years ago, I'm sure you can remember how to catch a mouse." It added crossly. When Toby refused to budge, he breathed a sigh of irritation and when Toby responded with a plaintive mew, he said: "Go. Please, go and chase your tail or get stuck in a tree or whatever it is cats do nowadays. If you keep that up much longer you'll wake mummy up, and neither of us want that do we? God knows she needs a rest."

Thus, from a bizarre yet endearing conversation between him and a cat, Molly realised that the man who owned the body in her bed was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh my God." She whispered, barely audible, but even the quietest whisper couldn't evade his super-sharp hearing. "Too late," he muttered, half to Toby and half to her, before tightening his grip on her waist and pulling her closer. Molly could only lay in shock and disbelief.

"Good morning," he whispered in her ear, his breath tickling her and making the hairs on her neck stand on end and her head spin with arousal. How many times had she dreamed of hearing those words, spoken in that precise way? Too many.

"Oh my god." She repeated, but louder this time, and Sherlock gave a chuckle that resonated deep in his chest.

"It's quite a lot to take in isn't it?" He said, summing it up in a nutshell.

"Just a bit." Molly said, still trying to comprehend the enormity of it all. Sherlock Holmes was in her bed; Sherlock Holmes was wishing her a good morning; Sherlock Holmes was being… romantic? Since when?

Then it all came rushing back: The things they'd done, the things they'd said, the things they'd felt, rushing back into her brain like an explosion of memories, each one an echo of the real event. A night of bliss and passion and desperation, flooding into a morning of calm and quiet and easiness. It was almost too much to take in.

Molly turned round abruptly to face a smug, bare-chested, messy-haired Sherlock, whose expression was somewhere between amused and (dare she say it) love-struck.

"I- we- Oh. My. God!" She said a third time, positively ecstatic.

Sherlock laughed again, his aquamarine eyes smiling and glinting in the morning light.

"Where has this sudden sense of religiousness come from?" he asked jokily.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I just… I can't believe it… do you know how many times and in how many different ways I have imagined waking up beside you?" she said, still in shock, before realising exactly what had left her mouth in horror and starting to cover it up.

"No, I mean, not like that, just, you aren't much of a morning person- well you barely come to –GO TO- bed at all and-"

But Sherlock silenced her gently with a kiss, which certainly achieved its aim: Molly was left speechless. So much attention he was giving her- a life-time's worth of it up till last night!

"Molly, shut up." He said firmly. "And yes," he added.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I do know how many times you've dreamed of waking up beside me," said Sherlock, with honesty and a rare touch of kindness in his tone. "You've dreamed of it approximately 3,650 times, averaging on twice a week ever since I first stormed into your morgue five years ago and demanded to see the body of Mrs Hathaway and a cup of black coffee with two sugars. And you stumbled and stammered and tripped over your words- which I confess I thought was infuriating then, but now it's oddly endearing- telling me that it was authorised personnel only in the morgue. Then, because I'm an impatient, selfish fool, I used you for personal gain. I told you that a beautiful woman such as yourself must have a lunch-date to keep, and to hurry up and stop standing there all gormless. And I saw your eyes light up and your cheeks flush, and you scurried off, barely able to mutter a 'thank you', and you let me into the morgue and brought me coffee without another word. I know how I touched you on that day and I didn't care. The emotionless monster in here-" Sherlock paused to tap his head- "saw you only as a tool to get my way, not a human being with feelings that I could possibly have been hurting. And I'm truly sorry for that, because now the idea of hurting you rots me to the core. So yes, I know how many times you've dreamt of waking up beside me, and as for the ways, that's impossible to calculate, because what goes on in your brilliant mind- and yes it is brilliant and I envy its openness- what goes on in your brilliant mind is so unbound by logic and rationality. You are capable of so many beautiful fantasies that they'd be quite impossible to count… why are you crying, have I said something wrong?"

Molly was indeed crying: she was curled against Sherlock's bare chest with damp eyes leaving tear-tracks across his skin, but she wasn't upset like Sherlock thought; she was overcome.

"No Sherlock," Molly wept, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. "It's perfect, everything… it's just so perfect!"

Sherlock, still learning the ropes of emotion, was perplexed. "If everything's perfect then why are you crying?"

"I'm crying because I'm so happy!" she exclaimed, laughing through her tears.

"Happy?" echoed Sherlock, as if the word was foreign, belonging to a language he couldn't speak.

"Yes, Sherlock, happy, I'm crying because that's the most beautiful thing anybody's ever said to me in my entire life, and to hear it come from you makes me so unbelievably happy."

At this, Sherlock laughed too. "Good," He smiled, cupping her face and kissing her forehead as he had done in the restaurant. "I'm glad I make you so…happy." He said, still pronouncing the alien word slowly and deliberately as if concentrating on getting it right. "I don't think I've made anybody quite so happy before," He said honestly, causing Molly to cry harder.

"I wasn't actually finished though," he added cautiously, a little alarmed by Molly's emotional state.

"Oh right, sorry, carry on!" Molly apologised quickly, consoling herself.

"The thing is Molly," Sherlock continued, "I remember the day we met word for word and second for second, and I remember every other encounter we've ever shared, because they're all up here in my mind palace. There's not a moment spent with you that isn't archived inside my head, and if I'm honest, I'm not sure why. Usually, I delete unimportant memories, but without realising it I've always subconsciously skipped over ones involving you. There's a glitch on the hard-drive of my brain which renders me incapable of deleting them, and I've never noticed it till recently, when it's become apparent that there are so many memories that their archive has burst its seams. A complete unblemished record of our time together flowed into the fabric of my mind palace, contaminating it and making it malfunction. I had only to stroll through the doors and there you would be, a perfect replica of the real flesh-and-blood you. And I saw it as a puzzle, a case I had to solve- so I asked you to dinner so I might solve it, but in solving it, which I believe I have, I have cemented that image of you. I haven't banished you, I have welcomed you and you in turn welcome me every time I visit my mind palace, always with a never-failing smile on your sweet face, and I think I know why."

Molly's heart was in her throat and her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke: "Why?"

Sherlock took her hand and placed it over his heart, and what she felt there blew her mind: a heart-beat, strong and erratic, racing so hard it might break through his ribs any second.

"Because I think I love you, Molly Hooper."

A whirlwind of emotion swept Molly head over heels- it was too much to take in! She was vaguely aware of tears augmenting from her eyes and Toby still meowing by the bed, but all her attention was focused on Sherlock's heart, still racing beneath her clammy palm. She began to see five years' worth of pining and tears and desperation flash before her eyes- Days spent following him around the morgue in frantic attempts to be noticed and cherished, then sobbing in the storeroom when he stared straight through her; nights spent crying herself to sleep in the arms of a detective made from pillows; waking up with his name on her lips and his face in her mind, raw emotion flowing through both reality and the land of her dreams; having so much to say, so many beautiful things concocted lyrically to make him see all that he ignored, but not having the courage nor the words nor the control of her stumbling tongue to let them out; bottled up feelings, shovelled down dreams and years and years of striving to make him happy and getting nothing in return… all forgotten; in seven simple words he had erased it all.

The life of Mousy Molly flashed before her eyes, whizzing through her brain like a tape on fast-forward. This was the end of the girl with so much to say but no power to say it, the end of the plain pathologist who nobody really notices, and the start of a new chapter; as Mousy Molly withered and died, Molly Hooper was reborn. In a glorious burst of emotion, she stepped out of her old black-and-white life and into a world shining, glittering technicolour. She was no longer alone- she would never be alone again, because the man she had loved till she was sucked dry of love to give was finally loving her back. She had the reciprocation she had so long craved, and it felt amazing.

She wasn't sure who started it, but soon she and Sherlock were kissing. She would never, ever get used to the feeling of his lips. They were divine, in every sense of the word- she didn't feel worthy to have such a privilege, yet at the same time she knew she had proved herself. Sherlock's arms moved to Molly's hips, and she pressed herself closer to him still, needing the reassurance that he was actually there, that this was not a dream. She still had a hand over Sherlock's thumping heart, and the beating of it prompted her to move his hand over her breast, so he might feel hers thumping the same way, feel the reciprocation she did- he needed to, she could tell: he still wasn't accustomed to the idea of somebody actually _loving _him- even the idea of his actions invoking happiness was alien to him. Her heart hurt to think of all the years he had spent alone and wanting company, just as she had, and in realising that, she laughed.

"What?" asked Sherlock, moving to kiss her neck even though she had broken the kiss. That was ironic too- the thought of the man who despised human contact being so eager to shower her with affection.

"It's just that we're so similar!" She said joyously. "I never noticed before, but now I think about it, we share so much."

Sherlock stopped kissing her and looked at her thoughtfully. Molly blushed momentarily at the sight of his slightly swollen lips and shining eyes- had _she _had such an effect on him?! Then she reminded herself that Mousy Molly was gone and it was indeed possible for the new Molly to make him feel that way- it wasn't preposterous that a man should love a woman, even her.

"How so?" He asked slowly.

"We were both alone, and both awkward and shunned." Said Molly, counting it off on her fingers, "We both wanted to make people happy- don't look at me like that, you wanted recognition of your humanity as much as anyone, don't deny it!" She said at his sceptical look, "We both sought the solace of science to cover up our loneliness, and threw ourselves into our work to fill the aching hole that lack of attention had created in us. It made you cold and detached and it made me desperate and invisible, but at the core we're the same: In short, we were just two loving people with nobody to love, and I think for us to be each other's to love and cherish is a beautiful thing. This whole time I have thought I wasn't good enough for you, and that I was the furthest thing from what you wanted, what you needed, but now I see that we were looking for each other the whole time. Do you see it too?"

Sherlock looked at her blankly for a moment, then he began to smile. "I do… I do see, yes." He said quietly. "And that's one of the reasons why I love you. You see the things I just can't. I look for cold facts, for emotionless proof, writing in black and white, but I can never see inside the heart of the people I work with; you can, and that's what makes you special."

He held her gaze for a long while, and a comfortable, beautiful silence wrapped itself around them. Molly swore that there had never been such a quintessentially perfect moment. Then Toby meowed impatiently, as if to remind them of his presence, shattering the silence. Both Molly and Sherlock laughed at the cat's impeccable timing.

"Bless him," said Molly. "He feels like a third wheel!"

"Do cats have the capacity to feel that?" Asked Sherlock, eying the cat in wonder.

"I don't know." Laughed Molly, "But I know something they definitely do feel- hunger! It's long past his breakfast time, I should go and feed him." She said, giving him a peck on the cheek and wrapping herself in his shirt, unknowingly making him want her all over again. He watched her saunter away with new-found confidence, the shirt just grazing the top of her thighs as she went, teasing him. What had become of his steely resolve to remain emotionless? He wondered to himself. Buried with the remains of Mousy Molly, he supposed, and to his surprise he couldn't care less.

Molly made her way to the door with Toby trotting eagerly at her feet, then she stopped and curled back around the doorframe.

"Sherlock?" She asked.

"Hmm?"

"I never replied, but I love you too. Very much."

And Sherlock smiled, for he had no doubt of it, and he knew he would spend the rest of his days making sure it stayed that way.

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**A/N: aww, writing Sherlock's little fluffy speech made me almost cry! I hope you enjoyed that :D On a sadder note, I am sorry to say that the next chapter will be the last, I'm afraid :( I just think it's run its course, but I have a rather sweet and different way in which I plan to end. Also, shout out to my lovely patient adlock followers- there is movement on the adlock front! I have recently been struck with some inspiration for a collection of song-fic one-shots which I will write when I find a scrap of time- so busy! Anyway, so keep an eye out for those. In the meantime, pretty please review, I didn't get so many last time which made me sad :'(**

**Best Wishes,**

**AdlockedMrsCumberbatch xx**

**P.S I'M FANGIRLING TO DEATH BECAUSE I'M SEEING THE IMITATION GAME (BEN'S NEW FILM) IN _TWO DAYS! _SO EXCITED!**


	7. Chapter 7: Acceptance

**Hello my lovelies! Long time no see! It's been ages since I uploaded my last chapter, but never fear, here is the first part of the two part finale of To Those Who Wait. The second part, the epilogue, will be up in a bit. I chose to write the ending from John's POV because I thought it would be interesting to have the comments of an outside eye in the mix, and because it's such an absurd idea that Sherlock could have slept with someone, I just had to use John to express the absurdity, so here you are everybody, sorry for the wait and enjoy!**

***DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

John was worried sick. Sherlock hadn't come home that night, and as far as he could tell, that could mean only one thing: something terrible had happened to him. That surely must be the case, because the other option was unthinkable; Sherlock Holmes didn't _do _emotion. He had never been so shocked in his life as when Sherlock revealed his plan to ask Molly to dinner, and though he knew Molly loved him dearly… well neither of them would let things move _that _fast, would they? Even if the date had (by some miracle) turned out to be a success, it couldn't mean that- the idea that… John couldn't wrap his mind around the possibility- it made him feel slightly ill. Much safer to assume that something bad had happened.

So after a night of calling, texting (Lestrade had been no help at all, other than saying they left the restaurant together after some sort of 'incident'- John hardly dared to think what he might mean) and pacing the living room of 221B, John was very surprised to hear Sherlock bounding up the stairs, perfectly well, sounding like he was on cloud nine.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" Called John warily.

"No John, it's a native Inuit from the South Pole who accidently got on a plane to Heathrow, of course it's me!"

"No need to get sarcastic! I have been worried sick! Where the hell have you been?!"

Sherlock looked at him as though he was Anderson. "At Molly's. I thought that much was obvious."

John took a moment to comprehend that. "Do… doing what?"

Sherlock took off his coat and threw it over the back of a chair, and when he glanced up again he had an unmistakably mischievous glint in his eye.

"Well John, when a man and a woman love each other very much-"

"Stop right there!" John took a breath out, steadying himself. By what earthly power had Sherlock managed to do well enough on a date to sleep with her?

"Sorry John, did your parents never give you 'the talk'?" Sherlock grinned, looking like he was having a whale of a time.

"I said drop the sarcasm, and Sherlock, though I'm tremendously happy that you've pulled, could you not have sent me one text? I've been up all night, worried sick!" John spluttered.

"Sorry John, I wasn't aware that I had to ask your permission to stay out all night."

"You don't! I just thought… honestly Sherlock, I don't know what I thought, but none of it was good. You could have been lying in a gutter somewhere or under a lorry or worse, captured by Moriarty or some such criminal-"

"John, did it not occur to you that if my date with Molly went well, the most logical explanation for my absence would be that I was spending the night with her, not under a lorry or in a gutter or chatting with Moriarty? Asked Sherlock, deadpan, pouring himself some coffee.

"Not really no!" John yelled.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and looked at John. "Why not?"

"Because if I'm honest Sherlock, I never thought you were capable of wanting… that."

"That?"

John cursed Sherlock for his ignorance. "Sex, Sherlock, I mean sex. Neither I, nor Lestrade, nor Mrs Hudson has ever known of you ever feeling that way towards anyone. What the hell changed?"

"I realised that I couldn't ignore Molly Hooper anymore or it would kill me." Said Sherlock, sipping his coffee as though he was simply passing the time of day, not dropping a sentimental bombshell.

"I-you- urgh, I'm going for a shower." Said John, exasperated.

John didn't know why he was so angry, but he was. Angry that Sherlock had always acted so horribly to Molly and now in the blink of an eye they were sleeping together; angry that Sherlock didn't value his friendship enough to call him; hell, he was even angry that Sherlock bloody Holmes, the sociopath, had a more eventful love life than he did. But as John soaked away his anger under a jet of hot water, he realised that though he was angry, he was happy too. His best friend was happy, and Molly was happy… they both deserved some happiness, everybody did. He finished up in the shower and got dressed, feeling a little guilty about how he'd reacted. When he went back into the living room, Sherlock was sat in his chair staring wistfully out of the window, while playing a merry, upbeat tune on his violin that John had never heard before- full of tremolos and trills and lilting joy. As John listened, he suspected it might be a new composition, and he had no doubt who the inspiration must have been.

"Composing?" Asked John loudly, to announce his presence.

"Yes John, I've suddenly been struck with some inspiration."

John chuckled. "I can't imagine why." He said to himself. He let Sherlock get on with it for a bit and tidied away the coffee cups.

After about an hour, Sherlock seemed to have mastered his composition and after playing it through, John sat him down to talk to him.

"Hey Sherlock, I'm sorry I reacted how I did, I was just worried about you," He began.

"I know John, but I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself." Sherlock replied, rosining his bow. John knew that was the closest he would get to an apology, and changed tack.

"So, you and Molly then?"

"Hmm, me and Molly." He answered with a rather far-away look in his eyes.

"Things are good?"

"Things have never been better John." Replied Sherlock.

"I'm glad. Do you feel more at peace with yourself now?" asked John.

"No!" said Sherlock, in a suddenly impassioned state. "I thought it would help but it didn't, it made it worse! I can't concentrate, I still see her in my Mind Palace, and I'm all jittery and fidgety, I can barely keep still. And you know the worst bit? I don't even care! It really is most perplexing."

"It's called being in love mate." John chuckled.

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully, but almost right through him. "Yes," He said slowly. "I suppose it is." Then he seemed to snap back to reality. "How do you people cope?!"

John laughed aloud. "I suppose we don't, we just get on with it."

"How hateful."

"You love it really."

They sat in silence for a few moments, then John spoke. "So, you slept with her then."

"Well observed John."

"I know, it's just it's funny, most people don't sleep together on a first date. Although you aren't most people."

"No… and she didn't seem to have any objections. Her idea as I recall."

That didn't surprise John, for he knew the depth of Molly's love for Sherlock. "I hope you treated her well."

Sherlock looked irate all of a sudden. "Of course I did! I have never been so careful in all my life. She… she's precious. I know how easy it would have been to hurt her, but I planned everything. Every word, every gesture, every touch… every kiss. Meticulously arranged so that she could see how much I have changed. She knows it. I told her I loved her. That's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, yet she extracted it from me so simply. And she replied that she loved me too, and she didn't see but it brought tears to my eyes. John, I am a heartless, emotionless man who was made to cry at four mundane words. She does things to me that I can't describe, she…. Urgh, she is just Molly Hooper and I can't explain how she makes me feel. It's most annoying, I hate being lost for words."

John had been listening to these ramblings with soft eyes and weak knees. His machine flatmate had expressed the most human feelings and John knew that this was a turning point for Sherlock. Sherlock and Molly.

"Sherlock?" He said.

"Hmm?"

"Never let her go."

**.**

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**A/N: Awww, that was sweet to write :) I hope you enjoyed that, next one will be up in a about ten mins, sorry for the delay in this ending, I just got so busy! in the meantime, you can use those ten mins to post me a lovely review :) Thanks for reading, **

**Best wishes,**

**AdlockedMrsCumberbatch xx**


	8. Chapter 8: Epilogue

**Hello lovelies! It's here, the ending of To Those Who Wait. Thank you to everybody who read, reviewed and followed this humble fic of mine, as a fledgling fic writer with not much of a following, I am thrilled with the response it has had, so thank you everybody for that. Warning, this epilogue contains extreme fluff and serious cuteness. Enjoy!**

***DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock or its characters, any and all rights belong to the BBC***

As John fiddled with his tie in front of the mirror, he recalled those words he'd said to Sherlock nearly five years ago: 'Never let her go."

To his surprise, for once, Sherlock seemed to have listened. John's suit was tailored, black with a gold tie. There was a full white rose and a handful of forget-me-nots (Sherlock had given Molly some when he went away on a long case, shortly after they started dating. He had still been scared she would 'wake up and realise she was making a mistake in loving him'. Molly had kissed him and assured him that he was stuck with her, and thereafter forget-me-nots became the couple's flower of choice) in his button-hole, and his shoes were smart and polished. Three hours to go and he was already feeling nervous… is this how Sherlock had felt when he was in this position? No, he answered himself almost immediately, Sherlock would have felt worse. After adjusting his tie, John glanced down and ran his finger along the invitation on the dresser. Simple but high quality card, bohemian font, minimalistic and formal and so god-damned _normal. _John still couldn't get over it. He picked up the invitation and read it for the hundredth time.

_To Dr and Mrs Watson and Catherine,_

_Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Dr Molly Rose Hooper _

_Request the pleasure of your company at their wedding;_

_Friday 26__th__ April, St Thomas' Church, Redley, Surrey,_

_The reception will be at Aldridge Manor, Tallington, Immediately afterwards._

_Please RSVP to Molly Hooper, 07668925433_

"Reading it again isn't going to make it seem any more real, dear." Said Mary, coming up behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "If it helps, I can't believe it either."

She was dressed in a simple soft blue dress with a translucent gold sash around her waist. As head bridesmaid, John had never seen her look quite so stunning, except of course when she was the bride. His daughter, Catherine was to be a bridesmaid too, and John burst with pride at the thought. The other bridesmaids were Molly's old friend, Charlotte, and her two daughters, Stephanie and Lucy.

"Where is that damned veil?!" Mary was saying, rushing around frantically.

"I think I saw it on the kitchen table, with the bouquet." Replied John, combing his hair for the fiftieth time.

Mary came rushing back with the veil in her hands. "Thank you darling," Said Mary, planting a quick kiss on his lips. "Stop fussing with your hair, I know you're nervous but you'll go bald if you keep up that violent combing." She said with a wink, before rushing off again. "Found it girls!" he heard her call.

Since all they all lived in London, the Watson household was being used as 'HQ' for the bride and her bridesmaids to get ready. Stephanie, Charlotte's eldest daughter, was a recently qualified beauty-therapist, and she was currently working her magic on Molly in the bathroom. Their hair had been done at a local salon earlier that morning, and the cars were picking them up at eleven, for a one-thirty start to the service at Molly's old Church in her hometown in Surrey, where her parents used to live and in whose graveyard her father was buried. It was also close to her mother's nursing home, so she could come with a carer and see that for once, Molly had not mucked everything up. Sherlock had insisted that she chose the venue, and she'd wanted nothing more than a lovely country wedding, close to her roots and to her father, who though dead could still attend in spirit. Sherlock had apparently just sat back and watched the delighted smile on her face as she planned every minute detail. Of course, he'd helped when he was asked to, happily, but Molly had been more than happy to do the majority of the organising of the day she had dreamed of her whole life, and Sherlock had loved to watch her excitement grow. He'd once said to John that she seemed to 'sparkle' whenever the topic of the wedding came up, and though John teased Sherlock for his sentimental choice of words, he'd had to agree.

Knowing if he stayed there much longer he'd go mad with nit-picking his appearance, John decided to leave the ladies to it and go and see how Mrs Hudson was getting on with Catherine. John and Mary's three year old daughter was also to be present at the wedding, much to their delight. John would have thought Sherlock would have avidly forbade the attendance of children, but to his surprise he had insisted Cathy be present, along with the children of various other guests. He suspected it was because Sherlock and Mycroft had been largely left out of any of his parents' plans when he was a child, and he didn't want that for Cathy or any of the others. John found Mrs Hudson in Cathy's room, fastening a gold ribbon into her hair. She looked adorable in her little soft-blue dress and cardigan, with a huge grin plastered on her face.

"I'm pretty, Daddy!" she said, as John entered.

John chuckled. "Yes you are princess," He said, taking her from Mrs Hudson and hoisting her up. "The prettiest princess in the land." He added, making Catherine giggle.

No sooner had he picked Cathy up, he heard shuffles and laughter in the hallway, and turned round to see Molly, fully decked out, with the bridesmaids clustered behind her. She looked stunning: there was no other word for it. Her dress was simple, ivory white satin and a lace overlay with a slight gold tint (to fit the blue and gold theme) it was snug on her frame and flowed down her legs with a long train and a matching lace veil. Her make-up was simple and neutral, her hair, in salon-fresh soft curls that shone like copper in the morning sunshine, was pulled into a simple up-do with a bejewelled comb, and she clutched a bouquet of white roses, forget-me-nots (typically) and orange blossom, tied with gold ribbon.

There was no doubt about it: she would take Sherlock's breath away.

The cars came at eleven on the dot, and they bundled happily in- Molly and Mary, Mrs Hudson and Cathy in one, the other bridesmaids in another, and the John in the last. The first two cars set off to Surrey, but John's car went in the other direction, a very important part of the wedding party still missing: Sherlock and his groomsmen.

When the car arrived at 221B, they were waiting outside. Mike Stamford and Lestrade looked done in, and John could see that Sherlock had been giving them quite a time of it.

"Thank God John, I swear I was about to shoot myself in the head with Lestrade's gun." Said Mike, hopping in beside John.

John chuckled, then realised what he'd said.

"_Gun?! _You didn't actually bring a gun with you did you Greg?"

"Don't be stupid John- although at _your _wedding, one may have come in handy so…" said Lestrade with a grin. John ignored him.

"Sherlock? You getting in?" prompted John, as he wavered on the curb.

"What if she changes her mind? What if she doesn't show up? It's still not too late for her to dump me you know. Roughly 13% of brides in the UK every year fail to turn up."

Mike and Lestrade groaned. "All morning we've had this!" Complained Mike.

"Sherlock, I've just watch her get into the car and drive off to Surrey. She's marrying you, but you can't marry her unless you get in the bloody car!" Said John, holding the door open. Sherlock got in without another word.

The journey passed without much of a hitch, except when Sherlock was ready to explode with nerves and ended up deducing the people driving the cars alongside them on the motorway, thoroughly pissing everybody off. They arrived at the church at quarter past one. The bridesmaids' car had just arrived. Before bringing Cathy and Mrs Hudson to the church, Molly's car was dropping her and Mary off in a lay-by round the corner, where Sherlock's father was waiting with the wedding car. Molly had asked him to give her away since her own dad had died. Sherlock's mother greeted John and the others and cooed over how dapper Sherlock looked- which he did, his hair was mussed as always, but slightly neater than usual. His expensive suit (paid for by Mycroft of course) was finely cut, with velvet lapels, and a gold tie which matched John's was around his neck. Sherlock tutted over her fussing and after a quick peck on her cheek, he headed off into to the church to make sure everything was in order.

It was one thirty-five when John spotted the wedding car coming round the corner, he hurried inside to tell Sherlock, who was pacing up and down the aisle and fretting about how she was late.

"See, fashionably late, just like I told you." He said to Sherlock.

"I don't see anything fashionable about it, but at least she's here." huffed Sherlock.

John shook his head in amusement. "At least? Sherlock you're about to marry her for God's sake, sound a little more upbeat."

Sherlock looked at his feet and shifted uncomfortably. "John, I…" He stammered, sounding genuinely nervous.

"What mate? Buck up, she'll be at the door any minute!"

"I… I'm experiencing some sensations of great discomfort, I believe I…"

"Spit it out Sherlock!"

"John, I'm scared shitless." Blurted Sherlock.

For a moment, John just looked at him in disbelief, then he burst out laughing.

"How is my fear in any way funny John?!" enquired Sherlock indignantly.

"Sherlock, you are an emotionless machine and yet you're scared?! Sociopath my arse, now she is going to be on that aisle in ten seconds flat, so shift it!"

"You really think she wants to do this?" Said Sherlock. The fear in his voice and the terror in his eyes showed just how nervous he was: this man was getting married yet he still thought he was unlovable? The occurrence touched John deeply.

"Sherlock, I have never, ever, seen two people more in love than you and Molly. Quite frankly it borders on disgustingly sweet sometimes. Now pull yourself together, put a smile on your face, and go and marry the woman you deserve."

Sherlock, surprisingly, didn't need telling twice. John and Sherlock took their positions just as the organist started playing their chosen piece, Pachelbel's Canon in D major. He was aware that Sherlock was tensed with anticipation beside him, like a gun-dog waiting to be commanded; then she was there. She was smiling nervously and her eyes were wide with excitement and fixed on Sherlock. John felt Sherlock gasp quietly beside him, and a sneaky sideways glance revealed he had tears in his eyes. The sight was almost enough to make John emotional. Molly continued to walk purposefully down the aisle, and to John it seemed there was a sort of magnetic pull between the two of them, drawing them to each other, stronger than any physical bond and inexplicably personal. He almost felt he should look away to give them some privacy. Finally, Molly stood just a few feet away from Sherlock, and John heard him whisper: "I never paid much attention to aesthetical beauty till I met you, but you have never looked more beautiful than you do now."

Molly smiled broadly and gazed at Sherlock with soft, damp eyes. "Oh Sherlock, I can't tell you how much I've looked forward to this moment."

"Well your wait is finally over." Said Sherlock, with eyes equally teary, and John would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't welling up too.

If John had been teary then, he was positively balling by the vows. He handed Sherlock the ring when it was time, and they completed the exchanges and their vows with trembling fingers and tear-stained faces, and when the vicar pronounced them man and wife he wiped away his tears and clapped as they shared the first kiss of their married life. There was a sense of completion in the air, and John watched with a sense of happiness and pride: who would have thought Sherlock Holmes would end up marrying someone?

Later, at the reception, Mr and Mrs Holmes sat together while John gave what he hoped was a better thought through best man speech than Sherlock's had been, although he suspected it lacked that certain something his had had.

"Sherlock Holmes, you have always been an insufferable git. You're arrogant, you're sarcastic, you're infuriating and you're temperamental. You have no compassion, no consideration, and no bloody sense of humanity. But I'll tell you what you do have, against all the odds: A heart. Who would have thought that lovely, quiet Mousy Molly from the morgue could make you open up as much as you have? And Molly's not so mousy anymore either. You two have changed each other, for the better. Sherlock mate, it took you a while but you finally opened your eyes and saw this beautiful woman whom you have made your wife, and it gladdens the hearts of all who know you both to see you so happy. Believe me when I say that we all wish you the very best in your new life together. To Mr and Mrs Holmes!"

Later, John sat with Mary and watched in pride as Sherlock and Molly had their first dance, to a beautiful violin piece, composed by Sherlock especially for Molly. They were glowing with happiness, and Sherlock held her close while they span across the floor. John wondered what had happened to that overgrown tantrum-throwing child he used to share a flat with; it seemed he'd finally grown up.

When the night was drawing to a close, the champagne was all but gone and Molly's heels were discarded under a table to save her feet, Sherlock decided to make one final toast. He chinked his spoon against his glass, and called everyone to order, taking everybody- not least John- by surprise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, before we all head home, I would like to propose one final toast."

John was at a loss as to what they could possibly be toasting now- so many toasts had been made, there was surely nothing left to be the subject of one. He was to be pleasantly surprised, however.

"All those years ago, on the 16th November 2011, Molly and I went on our first date. The events of that evening will forever ring clear in my mind, for what was supposed to have been a quiet meal turned into a criminal chase and a fight for life. Using my scientific mind, I caught the criminal, and using her loving heart, Molly saved the victim: all in a day's work for people like us."

A few titters of laughter emerged from the crowd, but John couldn't help but wonder where this was going.

"But strangely, or perhaps not strangely at all, it is not the adrenaline-filled events of the night that stay clearest in my mind: it's something that Molly said. She said good things come to those who wait; a mundane, over-used cliché, yet one that fits the two of us so well."

A lump appeared in John's throat as Sherlock turned his attention solely to Molly, who was bursting with pride and affection in the centre of the crowd.

"Molly, my darling, beautiful _wife, _you are without a shadow of a doubt the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you more than I can say, and I owe you so much. You waited such a long time for happiness and company, and, I'm ashamed to say, for me to notice you for the woman you were, not the morgue access you represented. Without really knowing it, I was waiting for you too, for somebody who accepted me for me, with my list of faults a hundred miles long. My point is that we both waited so long, but it's true: Good things really do come to those who wait. So, in memory of that night so long ago when we first found out the wait was over, I will make the same toast I did then. If you remember it, my love, say it with me. Everybody, please raise your glasses and be upstanding…"

There was a shuffling of chairs as those seated arose, and he heard, echoed from the mouths of the scores of people gathered to see the high-functioning sociopath be humanised, the words he replayed to himself every time he looked into Molly's eyes. But he did not hear them: all he heard was he and his Molly, together at last as they uttered that old toast in perfect unison, as it should always have been.

"…To those who wait, and the good things that come to them."

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**A/N: Aww, so there we are, the end of an era! I hope you all enjoyed that ending and nobody was too outraged by the OOC feels. Also, I am a fifteen year old girl, I know next to nothing abut wedding planning or how weddings work in depth, so I apologise f this was horribly inaccurate. Thank you to everybody who followed this, it really does mean the world, so if you could find it in you to post one last review, I would be tremendously happy :D. You're all wonderful and I hope to be posting more stuff very soon.**

**Until then, best wishes,**

**AdlockedMrsCumberbatch xxx**


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